rzmusings

[rzmusings]

Hello bisexual community

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— Greg Santora (via letsbelonelytogetherr)

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btw I am doing it afraid

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It's time for you to leave. You tell me so, but your lazy steps toward me let me know you don't really want to either.

Instead, you take me into your arms, eyes framed with long lashes looking at me with a certain longing I've only ever dreamed of seeing in another soul's eyes. A soft hint of a smile lingers on your softer lips, and you tell me I'm beautiful like you're talking to the night sky.

You kiss me like you'll never kiss again, and I notice how nobody else has ever felt so right against me.

— counting minutes until the next meeting.

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when my shelter cat passes by me, he pauses for a second, and looks up. He is waiting for me to lean down, and touch my hand against his side, so that when he keeps walking, my hand skims across his fur. he doesn't really need attention. he has his own thoughts and plans. but after more than a year of living in our home, he has come to expect a moment of kindness whenever he crosses my path. if I don't do it, he will follow me. "where is your hand?" he asks, with his plaintive and impatient eyes. I give it to him. he bumps against it like a balloon before wandering away. this is a poem to me

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spoke deeply to me.

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my hands find their way onto your face as easily as yours make a home of my waist, brushing the same admiration I gaze at you with into my sides. I tell you I pray that I have you in every alternate universe and you kiss my skin like a prayer answered—

"I'm glad we got it right in this one."

you don't feel real. I reach for your pulse and it answers back: you exist and you love me.

— something sacred.

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Vita Sackville-West to Virginia Woolf

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Simone de Beauvoir, from a diary entry featured in Diary of a Philosophy Student

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quitting my job to paint every inch of my house

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I'll just leave it here...

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the cursor blinks at me, reminding me of the words I have yet to type up. so full of you, and yet I cannot bleed you out onto this keyboard, or seep you into every pixel of the blank note.

sometimes, nothing quite captures the crescent dips of your dimples when you laugh, or the glow of the warm brown pools you hold in your eyes, quite like my memory of you. sometimes, nothing really will.

— the memory is a poem too.

[rzmusings]

16 April, 1939 Letters to Véra by Vladimir Nabokov

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i've made an instagram for my poetry, and i'd appreciate it if you followed here !!

rzmusings on instagram!!